“My grateful thanks to you, good sir,” she said. “I salute you,” and with a quick, roguish gesture she gravely raised her straw hat and suited the action to the words. “Good Lord!” came from Basil. “Don’t you wear any pins to hold that thing on?” “Not being, so far, entirely deprived of hair,” she replied, “pins would be a pure nuisance.” “Deprived of hair!” he could not help exclaiming. “I should think not; but what’s that got to do with it?” “Everything! Can’t you see that when it’s all tightly piled atop of my head, a well-made sailor-hat just fits over it? Its crown, filled to the edges, can’t stir; it isn’t like a modern crown, you see, which is a comfort.” Basil did not laugh outright, but he looked as if he were very near doing so, and this, too, was by way of being a comfort to the rider of “Narses.” They were now following a narrower path on the summit of a low hill, away inland, and, having slackened speed to let their horses breathe, it was difficult to avoid a chat. “I am leaving to-morrow,” began Basil, with that startling lack of the most ordinary tact which is displayed by men of his stamp under certain conditions. “Indeed!” “Yes. I did not expect to stay so long, but circumstances--” “Over which you had no control,” finished the “Gamin,” calmly. “What did you say?” he asked, turning to look at her with a sudden suspicion that she was laughing at him. “I said, circumstances over which you had no control--that’s the accepted formula, isn’t it?” she retorted. Basil rode in silence for a full two minutes, then began again, stiffly: “As I am leaving Normandy to-morrow--” “When you discover a subject of conversation you push it to its furthest possibilities,” Marguerite interrupted. “Well, it is gradually dawning on me that you really intend to leave Normandy, Salvières, and the be-neighboring regions to-morrow, although wiseacres pretend that to-morrow does not exist.” This unwonted flippancy caught Basil on the raw, and his teeth closed so grimly that the muscles became vaguely apparent beneath the tan of his lean cheeks; a signal his tyro-tormentor perceived clearly, and was exasperated enough to appreciate profoundly. “If you will deign to grant me your attention for a few short moments, I will explain why I make a point of bringing this inconsiderable event to your notice.” “Imbecile!” flashed through Marguerite’s mind amid a flood of remorse for such a desecration. “I grant you my attention,” she, however, persevered, and Basil viciously bit one end of his mustache, which he had drawn into his mouth. “I will be gone for a wholly indeterminate period of time,” he pursued. “Years, probably.” With extreme aptness “Narses” shied at a rabbit frolicking in the lush grass, and indulged in a series of risky gambades that afforded Marguerite an opportunity of strictly attending to his misdeeds.